


The Infertilization

by RosesAndLace



Category: Original Work
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Belly Kink, Beta/Omega, Breeding, Groping, M/M, Master/Pet, Master/Slave, Mpreg, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Not Beta Read, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Pregnancy Kink, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Slavery, Size Difference, body modificiation, british hierarchy, different take on a/b/o universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2021-02-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:35:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25490971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RosesAndLace/pseuds/RosesAndLace
Summary: In Lewis's training to become a doctor, he is assigned to treat the Duke of Albion's pet, Avery - a man he has had surgically altered to allow for pregnancy. This is the duke's last-resort effort to conceive an heir, as birth rates have dropped dramatically since the Infertilization that has swept the world. Lewis hates the practice, but he seems to be the only person who cares for Avery's well-being. And thus our curtain rises. But how shall it fall? (Porn starts in chapter 2.)
Relationships: Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 9
Kudos: 37





	1. The Assignment

**Author's Note:**

> If I've missed any tags, please feel free to let me know. Also, I'd like to add the obligatory disclaimer: this is a work of fiction. I don't condone acts of rape/non-con/dub-con anything like that in real life. If you feel the urge to do those things, please seek help. With that being said, please enjoy this fantasy of mine.

I still believed with 90% certainty that this assignment was a punishment. And it was, in a way, but I wouldn’t find that out until much later.  


I sat on a pink velvet settee in a lavish drawing room. I’m sure the draperies and tapestries and wainscoting all complemented one another perfectly, but my heart had been pounding so hard in my chest that the only detail I noticed was the square foot of carpet before me – a pattern of strawberry leaves intertwined in delicate ringlets of three. A not-so-subtle nod to the duke’s coronet. A not-so-subtle reminder of how much was at stake. How little I belonged in this room.  


Perhaps there was an ambush of authorities coming, and this journey to a duke’s house had all been a pretense. Perhaps I should have fled then. But then I couldn’t return to the Academy.  


I was doomed, either way. Or so I thought.  


When the duke’s steward finally entered the room after at least a quarter hour’s torture, I sprang to my feet so quickly that the room teetered for a spell before resolving itself into shapes and colors. I found myself instantly repulsed by the steward’s meaty, unforgiving face.  


“You’re from the Academy?” he said.  


“Yes. My name is Lewis Goodwin. Dr. Lambert sent me to check on…on a post-operative patient, he said?”  


“You don’t look old enough to be a doctor.”  


His frankness raised my eyebrows, if only a little. But I suppose his doubt was necessary. There were so few young people in the world since the Infertilization that it might make an older man, such as him, less adept at judging age in those under 30 years of age.  


“I passed my exams early, sir,” I said. “With top marks. I’m at Journeyman rank.”  


“That’s good, then. I can tell you that the duke will be very upset if his pet is not well taken care of.”  


My eyebrows fell. Then this was a punishment. I was to examine an animal, rather than a human who needed help and whose malady could be added to the bank of knowledge that would further aid me in my career. Lately, most veterinarians had been repositioned as doctors to aid in repopulating the earth, it was true, but surely Dr. Lambert wouldn’t be wasting my time with this? The duke must have donated to the college heftily to be receiving such treatment. Or my error was more grievous than I had believed.  


“I’ll be sure to take the utmost care with whatever the duke has tasked me with,” I said, training my features to not show any trace of my dismay.  


The steward nodded. “His handler will return with him shortly.”  


I wished then that I could spy into Dr. Lambert’s thoughts. For I hadn’t transgressed – not in such strident actions that might be obvious to the average passerby. But I had watched my fellow student, Journeyman Carver – pined after him – nearly all semester. His pert behind, his liquid blue eyes, and his baby-soft lips. I had melted into his words during our class discussions as if they were poetic pronouncements of love personalized to my whims.  


And at some point – I couldn’t be sure when – Dr. Lambert had noticed. I had only discovered this during our last class, while listening to Carver answer Dr. Lambert’s question on the necrotic properties of human tissue, hearing angel choirs singing to the tune of his voice, dreaming of Carver and I sharing a medical practice on a modest but respectable street, perhaps gaining renown, perhaps sharing lingering gazes across paperwork, perhaps allowing professional pats on the shoulder to graduate into friendly caresses, and more-than-friendly caresses…  


You understand.  


During my saccharine flight of fantasy, I glanced toward the head of the class to find Dr. Lambert smirking at me knowingly, as if we shared the most intimate of secrets. I blushed. Violently. I possess a shameful preference toward other men, which was blacklisted before the Infertilization and is now a hanging offense under the right circumstances. The more rosy my blush became, the larger Dr. Lambert’s smirk grew. And when I had stood to leave, on that day when I had most wanted to run to my tiny flat and bury my head under my thread-worn coverlet in shame, Dr. Lambert had called me to stay after class.  


“I’d like you to call on a patient of mine who has just undergone a life-changing surgery not four weeks ago,” he’d said, gathering up his notes and sliding them into his shiny, leather suitcase. “I’ll receive a full report from you on his condition at next week’s lecture.”  


Such an assignment was not unheard of for a medical student in his final year. In fact, normally, I would have been excited to receive it. But the way he stroked his mustaches at the conclusion of his speech, even the way his wrist flourished as he wrote down His Grace’s address in New Mayfair, had me digging my fingernails into my palms with tension.  


“Don’t forget, Journeyman Goodwin. A full report.”  


And now, here I was. Being sent here to treat a pet was a message, I supposed. That my kind were animals, and only meant to associate with animals.  


Had Dr. Lambert already reported me to the police? Should I run back home and pack my things, or would keeping up appearances buy me more time?  


When the door reopened and a different, more commonly clothed man came through, I fought to conceal my panic. But the confusion that followed I could not conceal. For behind him walked in, not a prized, perfectly trimmed dog or a fluffy, squash-nosed cat, but a man. A man held by a leash attached to the leather collar around his neck. Whose gaze stuck to the floor, eyes concealed by a generous fan of blond eyelashes. Who was naked as the day is long.  


“Your patient, sir,” said the servant.


	2. The Downfall

The servant tugged roughly, bringing the man over to the settee I had recently vacated. "Up there, now. That's a good boy."  
  
  
The leashed man sat on the settee. One of the servant's meaty, rough hands fell on his shoulder and pushed him down, down, until he was prostrate, his delicate, bowed lips the same color as the velvet of the settee, his eyes averted, gazing at nothing. A dull grey-blue, they were. Or perhaps it was only the vacant expression that gave them that matte quality.  
  
  
His throat, now exposed, was lined with bruising and bite marks that circled the leather collar. He closed his eyes then as if he appreciated the opportunity to rest, or perhaps as if he couldn't look me in the eye. Either way, it saved me the trouble of forcing a calming, bedside smile in such a strange tableau.  
His nakedness bothered me less than it might have a few years before my medical training. I had seen many a man, alive and dead, without the trappings that render us civilized. But the collar. The bruises. Those, I could not ignore.  
  
  
Then I saw it, knotted low on the pet's torso. An angry red, shiny, twisting scar that spanned the whole width of him. He'd been sliced right open without much care and sewn back up with even less.  
  
  
The steward had said the duke would be upset if his pet didn't receive the best of care or some nonsense. Then why the jagged scar? It was if he'd been sawn open with something dull and sewn back together with baker's twine and a carpet needle. The scar folded over itself, leaving protrusions and tucks and folds of skin. It looked like the incision, if it could be called so, that would have caused it would have been deucedly painful.  
  
  
I swallowed a queasy lump and regretted adding anything to the roiling pit of my stomach.  
  
  
"Is it your first time here, then?" the servant said. "Got to be, with that look on your lily-white face."  
  
  
"Yes, it is. I'm a Journeyman studying at the Academy. Can you tell me the nature of his...surgery?"  
  
  
"Cut him open and put a baby maker in 'im, they did." Somehow casually, the man reached out and pressed a finger into the center of the pet's right nipple, causing the slightest flinch to pass over his face before it was gone again. He took hold of it and worked at it like a key that wouldn't fit into a lock that it should: twisting, tugging, twitching.  
  
  
For a moment, I ignored the odd action, because I was so utterly gobsmacked by the words. Then I averted my eyes, with all the abated horror only a truly uncomfortable Englishman can muster. I understood the action as little as I understood the words. I was sure I had misheard him, or perhaps he was ignorant of basic human anatomy, which would not have surprised me given his general mien.  
  
  
I had a job to do. I could report this man's mistreatment of the "pet" to the steward before I left. And a moment's impulse gave me the desire to apologize to the manhandled man on the settee. Although I continued to have the urge to call him a boy rather than a man, for he was small in stature. But the creases about his eyes, the shadows on his cheeks - he was not a youth, perhaps, but he was young. But even as I had the thought to apologize, another part of me rejected it. The steward and handler had spoken of him as if he were less than human. As if he did not speak himself. I questioned whether I should contradict their cruelty with kindness of my own, or if such a bold stance would displease them enough to report dissatisfaction to Dr. Lambert.  
  
  
I had been thrown into a very odd situation, that much was evident. But how to navigate it, I was yet unsure.  
  
  
"A...a baby maker," I said. "And by that, you mean a uterus? A womb?"  
  
  
The man looked up at the ceiling as if to recall a poem he had been assigned to memorize, even as his sausage-like fingers still toyed with the pet's poor nipple. "I dunno what it's called. All the bits that make him able to give His Grace a bastard. The duke's getting old and doesn't want his money going to the Crown. And his pecker's gone soft with age, besides, so he asked the surgeon to inject him with... I don't remember the name. Something to make him more, er." He licked his teeth and grinned, showing off yellow and brown teeth with spaces between one could drive a carriage through. "Attractive."  
  
  
I closed my eyes to think back, flipping through medical journals and pamphlets in the annals of my mind, but could not call up a sufficient answer. "I've never heard of such a thing."  
  
  
"Me either, but what do I know, eh?"  
  
  
A moment of the servant's other hand drew my eye, which I instantly regretted. His hands caressed the buttons of his fly, fondling the near-indiscernible shape beneath the dark fabric.  
  
  
"Sir," I said. "This is highly inappropriate. I'll be obliged to call in the steward if this continues."  
  
  
The man barked out a laugh. "The steward gets his jollies off with my boy here"--he slapped the pet's nipple for good measure-- "at least twice a day, make no mistake. He's more quiet-like than I am, is all."  
  
  
Words failed me. This poor, poor man. Even now, my eyes found his face to search for a trace of the misery I was sure he endured, and some I wasn't sure of yet but would soon learn of. It was carefully scrubbed clean of emotion, aside from the occasional grimace when the servant toyed with his nipple more roughly than before.  
  
  
"Want him to suck you? It's likely to be your only payment for the day, knowing His Grace."  
  
  
I blinked. "I beg your pardon?"  
  
  
He chuckled at my expense, shaking his head as the ministrations of his hand against his groin grew more pronounced, fisting a handful of cock and sliding his hand along the fabric. "He can't give you any of the whores' diseases through his mouth."  
  
  
The pet lay motionless, with not a quirk of his lips or a squirm to reveal that he'd heard what had been said.  
  
  
There had been a terrible mistake. Or someone was making an awful joke. This couldn't be real, and it was, in fact, becoming more surreal by the second. Surely, Doctor Lambert was watching all this comedy through a peephole, ready to pounce the moment I let my guard down. I would not let my guard down.  
  
  
"I thank you, no," I said, inserting as much of the disgust I felt into my tone as I dared. The oddness of the moment had shaken the world off its axis for me. When I had begun the visit, everything was surprising. At this juncture, nothing would be. Or so I thought.  
  
  
The servant cocked his head as if wondering why I might turn him down. "Alright, there, fancy boots. Look him over quickly, then. I can make money off him out the back door people ain't around."  
  
  
I fought to regain my self-control, tugging on the tails of my waistcoat and pushing my spectacles higher up on my nose.  
  
  
"If I am to inspect him, I should like his body free from other hands," I said. My voice trembled, I admit.  
  
  
The servant took his fingers away from the pet's nipple, which had hardened and reddened from the attention. Then he nudged his fingers along his fly, sighing and groaning. "Yeah, well. There's just something about this one that gets the pick hard before you've given it half a thought."  
  
  
My gaze flicked to the boy's diminutive, flaccid member, the pink testicles serving as a wrinkly, downy pedestal for the small shaft, which settled against his scarred and skinny leg as he laid back. I had tried not to look, to afford my patient at least that dignity. But I am a flawed man, Lord help me.  
  
  
I let my leather medicine bag drop to the plush rug and set about laying out my tools upon the low table before the settee neatly, stoically. In a militaristic straight line upon a clean, white cloth. Making hardly a sound.  
  
  
The servant moaned. When I looked up, the man had taken his cock out, half-hard already, and laid it upon the boy's face where it sat against the arm of the sofa as if the action were as natural as looking at his watch. The boy's eyes clenched shut against the intrusion as the man began to rock back and forth, his cock lengthening with the stimulation of moving across the boy's features and bumping against his lips. A string of pre-cum clung to the boy's bottom lip and trailed upwards across his face.  
  
  
"Sir! " I cried, finding myself shocked even further despite feeling jaded only a moment before.  
  
  
The servant's voice, once he bothered to answer, was strained. "You only said you needed his body free, not his mouth."  
  
  
I...I am not an imposing man. I am not a strong man, either. I am not quite an inch below six feet, with shoes on. I wear inexpensive, mended spectacles and barely acceptable (mended, again) clothes. The servant, though doubtless below me in social class, towered over me. I felt all the constructs of social class and rules melt away through the soles of my shoes.  
  
  
I made plans to notify a constable as soon as I left. The nearest one would be on the street corner. I would play along until then.  
  
  
And what prevented me from packing my supplies up? Why did I not flee? Even now, I'm not entirely sure of the answer. Or perhaps, not willing to admit it.  
  
  
I cleared my throat, though my voice, when it came, was quiet. "Sir, I... I demand that you stop this instant. I must be allowed to examine..."  
  
  
The man groaned aloud, without even the pretense of keeping quiet or heeding me. He laid a thick hand below the pet's chin and tugged it toward him so his throat draped across the arm of the sofa like an offering, his voicebox bobbing in stark relief against the tendons of his throat. His eyelids fluttered.  
  
  
The man nudged his cock against the pet's lips. "Open up for me, then. There's a lad."  
  
  
The boy did not fight or protest. He merely let his mouth fall open and bore the intrusion of the spongy shaft first across his tongue and then, inevitably, down his throat. The gagging noise he made, followed by a brief, ineffectual cough, then by a gurgle, pierced straight into my stomach and traveled lower to where I had allowed himself to spare precious few thoughts before.  
  
  
The second protest I meant to make died on my lips as the man made his first thrust. The shaft's outline could be seen forcing its way through the white column of the boy's throat. Finally, the servant's fur-covered sac pooled against the boy's nostrils as he seated himself thoroughly inside. He rocked back and forth, hardly even thrusting now, but seemingly luxuriating in the feel of being encased in the boy's esophagus. The pet's chest spasmed for want of air and the servant chortled, patting the boy's shoulder. "You can breathe in a minute, boy."  
  
  
I recalled myself then. I rattled my head around until it cleared and turned my back to the scene, feeling a fiery hot flush from. My chest, to my neck, to my cheeks. I had watched for far too long. My shame could not be questioned. If my mentor watched from the shadows, or if the servant were a spy sent by the Academy, surely I would be ruined.  
  
  
I should have left. I ought to have left already, but perhaps leaving now would still allow me to sew together the mangled scraps of what dignity a medical journeyman was allowed and carve out a career still, if I were not turned in.  
  
  
"Thought His Grace brought you to look him over, not to pretend he don't exist." There came a moist, slurping noise from the pet. "If he has to send for somebody else, he'll not be pleased."


	3. The Everyday

Avery had been so exhausted that he made the mistake of letting himself fall asleep truly, deeply. So when he felt something shoving open his lips, he thought it was part of his dream, flying over London. In his dream, he had flown into a bird and it had hit his face. But when he stopped being able to breathe, his eyes flew open before his consciousness returned.  
  
  
Someone had their cock almost down his throat. Pierrot, by the taste and the fact that he was letting the whole weight of his pelvis compact Avery's head into his bed.  
  
  
Then the man began to trust, and Avery's throat muscles tried to compact around the violent intrusion, as they always did. Silly things. They would do more damage than they helped. Avery forced his throat to relax, waved his lungs' urgent proddings away, and went away. He tried to recall his dream, but it wouldn't return. The image would, but not the feel of it. The smoggy, smokey air whipping across his cheeks. The dim lights of a Thousand windows. And beyond - the slithering back silhouette of the Thames. And beyond even that - the dazzling blob of the ocean. He could still feel his hair slapping his face, the near-helpless sting of it. His cheeks still felt sore from squinting against the force of the air.  
  
  
His throat made a wet, clicking sound as his windpipe tried to sneak some air past the penis impaling his throat, sealing it shut. The man's slim, wiry belly slapped against his face, the curling hair there a wire brush against his nose, his eyelashes.  
  
  
The cock retreated only even for half a second's saliva-ridden gasp. His chest heaved, trying to reject the liquid along with its deliverer. The head of the man's penis wept slime into him. His hands rose up to rest against the steward's bony sides - the whisper of an action. A defeated man's shadow of a push backward. The reminder that the hole the man seeked to claim belonged to someone already - a living, feeling, usually-breathing person. An injection of sonder.  
  
  
Instead, whatever the balding doctor had syringed into his veins drove the normally mild-mannered steward to use his skull as a receptacle of spend.  
  
  
At least tonight it seemed to want it to be quick. Some nights were worse. Sometimes he drew the experience out while an hour or more while blackness advanced and retreated, while his vision (when he could get it) clouded and cleared. The assault seemed endless.  
  
  
His lip slipped from its spot shielding the steward's shaft from his top teeth and he received a swift slap to the side of the head.  
  
  
"Mind your manners, boy," the steward seethed.  
  
  
Avery theorized, when he had the oxygen to form thought, that the steward felt powerless in his current position and enjoyed his own power over Avery more than the fiction against his cock. The giving of air, the taking of it. The gift and theft of life. Over and over. Each spasm and muffled whimper pumped more blood into his already stiff cock. If he were any bigger, Avery might have actually died. Luckily, the steward's penis topped of at a mere six inches. Still enough to inhibit breath.  
  
  
He felt vomit rise in his throat and tamped it expertly, swallowing around the member, sending the flesh of his throat flexing over the skin of the steward's cock like a great tide. His throat croaked with strain. His toes curled and unfurled in equal measure.  
  
  
Then he felt the ridges of veins on the steward's cock swell with liquid just before he groaned, shuddered, exhaled. The muscles in the man's thighs to either side of Avery's head quivered. The penis bobbed its head at the back of his tongue and sent a milky torrent of salt and tang down Avery's throat, welling back between his teeth.  
  
  
It was over. For tonight.  
  
  
But when the steward wobbled to his feet, his sleeping gown in hand, his handler stood, silhouetted against the gaslight glow of the attic's dormer window. Now that his ears were no longer cocooned with man flesh, Avery heard the telltale sound of a man furiously tugging in his own cock.  
  
  
"Couldn't help but overhear you helping out my dear friend Pierrot there."  
  
  
"Quiet, Greeley," the steward whispered, fumbling about in the dark to fetch his stockings, his cap.  
  
  
"Ain't you got a townhouse waiting? Don't your wife wonder about you 'working' at all hours?"  
  
  
"Shut your mouth, Greeley, or make no mistake, I'll--"  
  
  
"Tell His Grace we've fed his pet nothing but cum since he was drawn and quartered? I'm sure you'd love the end of that."  
  
  
The steward grumbled, but slinked out, the door slipping quietly into place behind him  
  
  
"Now then, my dove," the handler said, grabbing a palm full of Avery's thigh. "How are you going to help me with this, then, eh?"


	4. The Discussion

The rest of the Journeymen filed out of the lecture hall, chatting and shuffling papers and looking at watches. I sat in my seat still, but I couldn't quite meet Dr. Lambert's eyes. In fact, I had hardly looked up from my notes from the moment I'd sat down. Not to pine over Journeyman Carver. Not even to ascertain whether I was the subject of Dr. Lambert's scrutiny.

Once the hall had emptied of people, Dr. Lambert came and leaned against the bench of the desk before me, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

I looked at him.

He was...smiling. As if we shared a joke that no one else did. He had a deuced twinkle in his watery brown eye.

My lips parted, but then resealed themselves. How could I say anything? What was there to say? Should I have accused him of a crime? Most likely. But I didn't.  
Had I gone to the constable after my first visit to His Grace's townhouse? No. My self-preservation and cowardice had won the day. They had beaten my morals into submission. For if I had gone to New Scotland Yard with what I had seen, I would need to confess my homosexuality - my deviance from acceptable society. I would never be employed again. Maybe imprisoned, depending on the Inspector General's mood. 

Perhaps that was what the good doctor smirked about now. Although why he should have brought me into the situation at all, I did not yet know. And because of this, Lambert's first words to me were not what I had expected. 

"Did you sample him, then?" His voice was low, as if he feared being overheard, but his eager look could not be denied. 

"No, sir."

Lambert's eyebrows fell. "No? Whyever not?"

I did not wish to discuss my sexual tendencies with my professor and mentor. I opened my patched leather suitcase, brought out a stack of papers, and slid it across the desk toward him.

"My report, sir. For...for the subject's next examination, I would be most gratified if you would find someone else."

The doctor's mouth fell open. "Goodwin! Have you gone mad?" His palm hit the papers on my desk. "There's a peach ripe for the taking. Sitting there. No one would blame you for a bite. No police would charge you."

I made to stand and stumbled instead, falling back into my chair. 

He laughed and put out an arm to stop me. "Alright. Yes. I admit. The morals are rather gray. But the boy was a guttersnipe. He's much better off now than he was a month ago, I can assure you. Living in the rookeries, picking pockets. I'd much rather suck cock than that." He leaned in. His breath smelled of stale tea and kippers. "And I happen to know you would too."

My eyes met his. Some of the humor had drained from his expression.

Now I understood. He feared for his position should I expose his secret and what he had done. He was used to being the one in power in such exchanges. But I was still cautious and small-minded. I didn't recognize my knowledge as power. I thought it was another source of shame. Another reason for society to send me back to my humble beginnings.

Dr. Lambert snatched my papers up and folded them up between his arm and torso. "I expect you back there tomorrow night. His Grace wants Avery cleared for impregnation within a week."

Panic lurched me to my feet. "No, sir. I cannot. Please find someone else, or go yourself. I don't wish to be involved."

Dr. Lambert laughed, shook his head, and then walked to the aisle and to his desk at the front of the room. "His cunny and arse are only off-limits until he's pregnant, Goodwin." He didn't bother to turn around.

My scientific curiosity overshadowed my caution for a moment. I'd stormed out of the duke's townhouse, eventually. I hadn't uncovered the details hidden by that ghastly scar. "His...?"

"Oh yes." He gathered his books and writing utensils. "I gave him a hole for a baby to go in, just as His Grace demanded. He has all the required equipment, you can be sure. When he births a child, I will be the toast of the medical community." He shut his suitcase. "And you would rather someone else examine him next? Please."

I told myself to sneer at him. To write another report and bring it to Scotland Yard.

But I would be disgraced. I would lose the career I had worked so hard for. I would be a social pariah.

"His Grace expects another examination tomorrow at 8 o'clock," Lambert said over his shoulder as he quit the room. "You will be there. And I don't expect to hear any more misgivings."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for just the quick update this time! Life has been getting in the way of fantasy recently, unfortunately. But I can't tell you how much I appreciate the comments and kudos I've received. It makes doing this so much more worthwhile. :) Hope you all are happy and healthy.


	5. Again

It was one of the footmen this time. Avery didn't know his name. One of those types who makes up for a diminutive stature with an extra helping of force.  
That is to say...his cock was small. So small, that it should have been a relief. Like an almost-too-large bite of sausage resting on his tongue and weeping down his throat.  
But the force made him just as bad as the rest. He had stopped Avery on his way to take a bath, shoving him against the corridor wall and pushing on his shoulders until he had slid down, down, his hair knotting itself against the paneling (it was longer than he'd ever let it get on the streets).  
The footman had tried to hit Avery across the face with his cock, but couldn't get any leverage to do so with the width of his fat fingers taking up almost half of the shaft itself where he gripped its base. Failing that, he'd wormed it into Avery's mouth and started thrusting.  
Banging Avery's head against the wall with every thrust must have been purposeful. After a minute, Avery saw little pinpricks of color exploding across the black void of his eyelids with each moment of impact. After two minutes, he tried to shove the footman back, to dodge to the side.  
"Had enough already, eh?" the footman muttered, seating himself firmly back in Avery's mouth. His soft belly ground against Avery's nose. Avery tilted his head that at least one nostril could draw breath even as the footman tried his best to make Avery gag with the pitiful length of flesh. Avery almost gagged out of pity.  
Avery's own cock was tiny, he knew. He'd heard plenty of derisive comments when he'd shared a piss with the other pickpockets as a child, then with the other boys in Rodney's gang. But he'd always planned on dying before he got to use it for its intended purpose, anyway, so he'd kept his head down and not let it bother him overmuch.  
This footman let it bother him.  
A door opened down the hall. Avery tried not to dwell on it. He was the fuck-pet of the entire townhouse. What did it matter if another below-stairs person saw his mouth being fucked? But his eyes rolled in that direction regardless. He fully expected his handler, or perhaps John Coachman with the horse cock to match his profession, and he fully expected to be used by whoever it was as well.  
Instead, there came a waif of a girl. No more than fourteen. From what he could see as his head was rocked into the wall for the hundredth time, her eyes fell to the floor and she increased her pace as she darted to the door immediately diagonal from the end of the hall and stole inside.  
He almost would have rather had another customer than to see pity like that. It reminded him of the young doctor whose innocent, wide eyes had looked upon Avery with such horror. He'd hated every moment of that examination. He preferred the balding, middle-aged man who could not wait for Avery's mutilated body to make him thousands of pounds.   
Yes, he decided. Physical pain was preferable to pity.  
He'd stopped paying attention to the forceful fuck he was receiving, so that the first string of semen caught him right in the windpipe. He inhaled it and choked.  
The footman laughed aloud. "Oh, yes. Choke on it."  
I already am, Avery thought. He used more strength to push himself away from the footman, who tugged feverishly at his cock as soon as he did so that the last spurts of ejaculate spurted across Avery's cheek, his forehead, his squeezed-shut eye. Avery had to concede - for such a small cock, it was a ludicrous amount of spend.  
The footman groaned and tucked his cock back inside his liveried trousers. "Thanks for that."  
He walked off down the hall, daring to whistle, as Avery wiped semen from his face with his previously clean towel.  
The hall door opened again. This time, it was Greeley. "Ah. I see you're hard at work."  
Avery hated the sound of Greeley's laugh. Each wheezing guffaw sounded like his last.  
"Time to see the doctor, lovey." He held up the damned leash and collar and gave it a shake.  
"I've not had my bath," Avery said.   
Greeley came forward and looped the collar around Avery's neck without preamble, tugging his neck.   
"Don't need one. Surgeons work on cadavers. You're likely going to be the best-smelling body he examines today."


End file.
